Fireworks

Two words make this holiday awe-some..Fire…works. Wait. Scratch that. One word. I phayled inglush.

This was the first year in a long time that I did not partake in the American ritual of gathering with citizens of local community and gazing towards the heavens with visions of light dancing in the sky. Dang it. Since I didn’t partake I was forced to remember my past experiences with minor explosives, er, fireworks. High school anyone?

My brother and I were lucky enough to live on a creek which was the perfect playground for fireworks. Every year a day or two before the 4th we headed outside county lines for legal fireworks (nothing says “legal” like the requirement to drive far away distances for your purchase; not unlike drugs or hookers). We would park on the dusty drive of a fireworks stand and ascertain what seemed like dozens of brightly colored, paper wrapped goodness; our eyes as wide as hubcaps, nose wafting the sweet smell of powder, eager with anticipation.

Once home we would not set them off under the watchful eyes of parents or within feet of correct fire extinguishment devices. Nope. How about crafting our own bazookas out of pvc with the purpose of launching bottle rockets at my sibling.

Or what about the time a blackcat exploded in my hand? The fuse was way to short and after the explosion I sat stunned…ears ringing, hand numb. All I could hear was what sounded like rushing water. I quickly counted all 5 fingers thankful I would still be able to throw a football.

Kids, don’t try this at home. To say I was dumb would be an understatement.Memorable? You bet.